That was supposed to make his day? Yuell sat quietly, waiting for Bandini to look him over and get to the point.
No one looking at Yuell would have taken him for the janitor he was. He cleaned up messes, left things looking pristine. And he was very, very good at his job.
He was aided by his looks. He was very average: average height, average weight, unremarkable face, brown hair, brown eyes, indeterminate age. No one noticed him as he came and went, and even if someone did notice him, he or she would be hard put to give more than a vague description that would match millions of other men. Nothing about his appearance was threatening, so it was easy for him to get close to someone without ever being tagged.
He was, ostensibly, a private investigator - a very expensive one. The know-how came in handy when he was tracking someone. He even took regular PI jobs, which usually consisted of getting the goods on a cheating spouse, and which made him good with the IRS. He reported every penny of income that was paid by check. Luckily for him, the majority of the jobs he took were ones no one wanted a paper trail on, so he received cash. It took a bit of fancy laundry work to make the income usable, but the majority of it was stashed offshore in a healthy retirement account.
Yuell had five carefully chosen men working for him. Each one could think on his feet, wasn't given to mistakes, and wasn't hotheaded. He didn't want any cowboys fucking up the operation he'd spent years building. He'd hired the wrong type once, and had been forced to bury his mistake. Only a fool made the same mistake twice.
"I have need of your services." Bandini finally said, opening a desk drawer again and extracting a snapshot, which he slid across the glossy expanse toward Yuell.
Yuell looked at the photograph without picking it up. The subject was dark-haired, eye color not discernible, possibly late-thirties. He was dressed in a conservative gray suit, getting into a gray late-model Camay. A briefcase was in his hand. The background was suburban: brick house, lawn, trees.
"He took something from me. I want it back."
Yuell pulled at his ear and glanced at the window. Bandini grinned, showing eye teeth as sharp as a wolf's. "We're safe. The windows are acoustic. No sound gets in or out. Walls are the same."
Come to think of it, there was no street noise. The only sound was that of their voices. No air-conditioning hum, no water rushing through pipes - nothing penetrated. Yuell relaxed, or at least stopped worrying about the FBI. He wasn't stupid enough to relax around Bandini.
"What's his name?"
"Jeffrey Layton. He's a CPA. My CPA."
Ah, the book-cooker. "Embezzlement?"
"Worse. He took my records. Then the little fucker called me and said he'd give them back when I deposited twenty million in his numbered account in Switzerland."
Yuell whistled between his teeth. Jeffrey Layton, certified public accountant, had either balls the size of Texas or brains the size of a pea. He voted for the pea.
"And if you don't give him the money?"
"He downloaded them on his flash drive. He said he'd turn it over to the FBI if the money isn't in his account in fourteen days. Nice of him to give me time to get that much together, right?" Bandini paused. "Two of those fourteen days are already gone."
Bandini was right; this was way worse than just taking money. Money could be replaced, and getting Layton would be a matter of saving face, no more. But the downloaded files - and Bandini had to be talking about his true financial records, not the second set of books kept for the IRS - would not only give the FBI indisputable evidence on tax evasion, but would also give them a wealth of information on the people Bandini did business with. Not only would the IRS be on Bandini's ass, so would the people who would blame him for the whole mess.
Layton was a dead man. He might not have reached room temperature yet, but it was just a matter of time.
"Why did you wait two days?" Yuell asked.
"My people tried to find him. They failed." His flat tone didn't bode well for the continued good health of the failures. "Layton had already skipped town before he called. He made it to Boise, rented a car, and disappeared."
"Idaho? He from there, or something?"
"No. Why Idaho? Who the hell knows. Maybe he likes potatoes. When my guys hit a dead end, I decided I needed a specialist. I asked around, and your name surfaced. Word is you're good."
This was one time Yuell wished he hadn't so assiduously built his reputation. He could happily have spent the rest of his life not having a face-to-face with Salazar Bandini.
The way Yuell saw it, this was a lose-lose proposition. If he turned down the job, his body would turn up either in little pieces or not at all. But if he took it, Bandini would have to figure he downloaded the flash drive onto his own computer before turning it in; knowledge was power, no matter which world you lived in. Bandini wouldn't hesitate to backstab anyone, so he expected it from everyone. What to do in such a case? Kill the messenger. You can't blackmail someone if you're dead.
The thing was, Yuell hadn't built his rep by being stupid - or by being a coward. He met Bandini's cold, empty gaze. "You'd have to figure anyone who found the flash drive would copy the files before giving it back to you, so it follows you'll kill whoever finds it. That being the case, why would I take the job?"
Bandini began his grating, humorless laugh. "I really do like you, Faulkner. You think. Most assholes don't know how. I'm not worried about anyone copying the file. It's coded to wipe clean if anyone tries to access the file without the password. Layton had the password." He leaned back in his chair. "Any future files will have to be coded not to allow downloading, but you learn from experience, right? "